


An Unnecessary Study in Grief

by taelynhawker



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF!John, Get Together, M/M, Reichenbach Feels, Reunions, Series 2 spoilers, Sexual Content, Violence, dark!Sherlock, everyone seems to get shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-19
Updated: 2012-09-19
Packaged: 2017-11-14 13:55:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/515927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taelynhawker/pseuds/taelynhawker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is only doing what's necessary to keep John safe. John is doing what's necessary to keep going.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Unnecessary Study in Grief

Click.

Pause.

Click.

  
_“... please there's just one more thing, one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't. Be. Dead. Would you do... just for me? Just stop it. Stop this.”_   


  
Click.

  
Pause.

  
Click.

  
_“... please there's just one more thing, one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't. Be. Dead. Would you do... just for me? Just stop it. Stop this.”_   


  
Trust his brother to be monitoring Sherlock’s grave. It’s more than a bit perverse, which wouldn't actually bother Sherlock except perhaps that it's his own grave. Sherlock wonders what exactly Mycroft is expecting to see there, to hear. It's always something with Mycroft. 

  
The door opens behind him and he flicks the monitor off. Regardless, the look Mycroft shoots him is knowing. Sherlock bristles at it. 

  
“I could fetch him for you,” Mycroft offers. “It is possible that no one would find it amiss if John Watson got lost in his grief. Quite literally. It's been over a week since he last left 221B  Baker Street.”

  
“No." Sherlock's answer is immediate, before he can even let the idea take root in his mind. “It’s important that he stay, that he believes. He’s key to this working.” Sherlock takes a deep breath. “The perfect witness, my... suicide note.”

  
Mycroft looks disapproving. It can’t be on John's behalf, as Mycroft, as far as Sherlock’s been able to deduce, has only ever been interested in John as a means to keeping an eye, and possibly a leash, on Sherlock. Mycroft's eyes cut to Sherlock's chest, then back up to his face. His right hand clenches on his umbrella. He's worried. Frustrated? His eyes are carefully blank, purposefully blank. Sherlock can't read anything in them.  

  
Sherlock's chin raises, but he restrains himself from defending his  position further. It's best for John to believe Sherlock dead. No matter how he turns the situation over in his mind, it's the only circumstances in which Sherlock can be sure John is safe. 

  
Mycroft gives a weary nod, and says, “In that case, the arrangements have been made. You leave tonight.  I expect at least one phone call a month. I mean it, Sherlock. If you don't keep regular contact so that I know where you are I will send my people after you.” Sherlock opens his mouth to argue and Mycroft’s face darkens. “I will send _John Watson_ after you, so help me, if you do not keep me aware of your comings and goings.” 

  
“Fine,” Sherlock snarls, hating that Mycroft can get to him, but he knows his brother will keep that threat. He will tell John, will send John after Sherlock. It's not as if Mycroft is concerned with John's safety. 

  
Mycroft smiles grimly. 

  
“You will keep an eye on him?” Sherlock asks, picking up a case file from the pile on the desk. His first leads in his hunt for Moriarty's network. 

  
Mycroft does not answer. When Sherlock looks up at him, his eyes flit to the monitor behind Sherlock. Mycroft’s personal surveillance monitor. Sherlock hadn’t dared to check the footage of 221B Baker Street. His grave had been enough. 

  
_“I was... so alone. And I owe you so much.”_   


  
Sherlock closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose against the memory of John’s broken voice. He is doing this for John. For Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, too, but so much more so for John. Who has been Sherlock’s best and only friend, a bright and unsolvable puzzle of a human being, and who rarely did what Sherlock expected of him. 

  
“Best of luck, Sherlock," Mycroft says. "Do try to come home in one piece. My people are ready and able to bring in anyone you should see fit to remand into said custody, regardless of where you should find yourself. And remember, at least one phone call a month.” Then he turns on his heel, umbrella cracking against the side of his shoe, and leaves the room. 

  
The door opens only seconds later and Mycroft’s assistant, a loose term because the girl is so obviously more than a mere assistant, steps in. Her eyes, of course, are glued to her Blackberry. A pleasant enough fiction, this play at being distracted, because Sherlock watches the subtle movement of her eyes as she takes in everything. Or almost everything. Certainly Mycroft has trained her well, but she’s not as good as Mycroft himself, and certainly not as good as Sherlock.

  
“We would like to remind you, Mr. Holmes, that you are to take into custody as many of James Moriarty’s associates as possible, with a limited body count.” She doesn’t even look directly at him. 

  
“Right,” he drawls out. 

  
One delicate eyebrow raises as her thumbs move quickly over the Blackberry’s keypad. “When you are ready, there is a car waiting for you in the underground parking lot.”

  
“Of course.”

  
When he is confident he is alone, though certain he is still being watched, he turns the monitor on again. 

Click.

Pause.

Click.

  
_“... please there's just one more thing, one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me...”_   


_***  
_

_John was in shock. He knew this. Had seen it countless times, treated it. And he was just self-aware enough to realize that he should probably be sitting in a hospital with a blanket around his shoulders. Which made him think about the fact that his shoulder ached. Too much tension? The struggle with Moriarty? It was very hard to concentrate._

  
_Halfway home his leg, his bad leg that wasn’t really bad at all, gave out on him, and Sherlock caught him with surprisingly gentle hands. John vomited then, barely avoiding Sherlock._   


  
_“John,” Sherlock murmured, but John shook his head._ No hospitals. No hospitals, just home.

  
_And without him needing to say the words, Sherlock slowly led them home. He removed his coat and put it around John’s shoulders. And it smelled like chemicals and chlorine, but underneath all that it smelled of_ Sherlock. 

  
_At the flat, Sherlock followed John to the washroom and started to help him get undressed, their fingers tangling at the buckle of his belt._   


  
_“I can do this,” John protested, but it was half hearted at best. The truth was his hands were shaking so badly he couldn’t get a grip on anything._   


  
_He rested his forehead against Sherlock’s shoulder and watched as the other man pulled the belt out of the loops. For a long moment Sherlock stood there, the belt in his hands, trapping John against him._   


  
_Then he was off like a shot, moving too fast for John to follow, starting up the shower and setting a clean towel on  
the sink. He was talking but John’s ears seemed to be stuffed with cotton because he could barely make out any of it._   


  
_“John?” Sherlock calling his name cut through the fog. Sherlock was peering down into John’s eyes. “I should have taken you to Saint Bart’s,” Sherlock murmured, pressing one hand against John’s forehead and the fingers of his other hand to the pulse point in John’s neck._   


  
_“I’m,” John started, but fumbled the words. “I’m fine, Sherlock. Nothing a hot wash won’t fix.”_   


  
_“Take off your trousers,” Sherlock ordered._   


  
_John had them unbuttoned and unzipped before he even realized he was following orders._   


  
_“Can you stand?”_   


  
_John shook his head. Wasn’t he on his feet just then? “Of course I can.” And he realized his hands were curled into Sherlock’s shirt, and Sherlock’s hands were on his hips, and these were the only things keeping him up._

_“Oh,” he breathed out._   


  
_“Right. Come on.”_   


  
_Sherlock manhandled him into the shower. John sputtered nonsensically but stilled once the hot water hit his body. Sherlock stepped into the shower, still clothed, pulling John to lean back against him. And John went willingly into Sherlock’s surprising heat. He hadn’t realized how cold he was until just then._   


  
_“You are a mess,” Sherlock muttered, the breath of his voice against John’s neck, and John shuddered._   


_“London is a battlefield, Sherlock.” He wasn’t sure that answer made sense, but it didn’t matter, because Sherlock’s long, lovely fingers were running through his hair and along the side of his neck._

  
_“A crime scene,” Sherlock contradicted._   


  
_“No. No. Bombs, explosions, snipers. Battlefield, definitely.”_   


  
_“I will concede to your authority on this matter, John.” And that was unusual. Sherlock never backed down from an argument unless it was a proper row with his feelings involved. Then there was pouting and the violin. Which was enough to set John laughing, a manic edge slicing through it. “John.” So much worry in that deep voice, and long fingers tight on his shoulders._   


  
_“Who does that to people?” John finally asked, when the laughter had quite died from his chest and he started to shiver again._   


  
_“Monsters,” was Sherlock’s grim answer._   


  
_“But you liked it,” John replied, and Sherlock lowered his head onto John’s shoulder, his black curls wet and trailing over John’s skin._   


  
_“I did. Until that last bit. Until it was you.” The words were soft and spoken against John’s skin._   


  
_John was sure he would feel them there for the rest of his life. Sherlock continued, lifting his head again, “We’ve got to get you out of the water now, John, and into bed.”_   


  
_“First ripping my clothes off, then dragging me to bed?”_   


  
_“Shut up, John.” But Sherlock’s voice was not annoyed or snappish. He just sounded tired._   


  
_And so John did. Shut up, that was. And let Sherlock take him to bed. And he was quiet as Sherlock changed both their clothes and curled his long, lean frame around John’s. And John fell asleep easily, hand clutching Sherlock’s shirt._   


  
The water is ice cold now. John doesn't really care. 

  
They never did talk about that night. About Sherlock in the shower with John, about the things he’d said and not said. John had retreated into his pre-established heterosexuality, and Sherlock had climbed back into his work. And if, on occasion, one of them caught the other staring, or a touch lingered too long... well, they were close, that was all. 

  
John's on his knees in the tub, his leg is cramping, but he registers the pain as little as he notices the freezing water. A new cane is propped against the wall outside the shower. He will need it when he finally gets out, but for now he’s staring at his hand, the wide spread of his fingers, at the grave dirt under his nails. 

  
It has been a week, he supposes though he’s not sure, since he stood at Sherlock’s grave. The dirt remains. Just like the blood on the sleeve of his black jacket. The blood that no one can see except for John. Blood only he can smell, _Sherlock’s_ blood. 

  
The coat is carefully laid out on the arm of the sofa. The sofa that smells exactly like Sherlock, that is indented with the memory of his body. John has spent every night since Sherlock died on the floor next to that sofa. Not on it. Never on it. If he sleeps on the sofa Sherlock’s smell will go away and John’s shape will overtake Sherlock’s. 

  
A low, pained hum escapes John’s lips. It sounds alien to his own ears. He closes his eyes, but all he sees is Sherlock, standing on that bloody ledge with all the pain in the world in his voice. _“Nobody could be that clever.”_  


  
“You could,” John forces out, voice garbled by the water running down his face. “You could, you sodding bastard.” 

  
His fist, when it comes into contact with the shower wall, actually cracks the tile. He’s certain he’s broken several bones, and that’s never good. Very not good. Not for a doctor, not for a soldier. Not for the partner of the world’s only consulting detective. But he isn’t really any of those things anymore. 

  
He closes his eyes.

  
_“Keep your eyes fixed on me!”_   


  
His eyes fly open and his jaw tightens against the pain breaking through the numbness. Real, physical pain. And that’s better than thinking of Sherlock as he jumped off the roof. Jumped off a roof. How could he have been so stupid? So selfish? So... how could he have left John alone? Not brought him along? 

  
And John knows how very not good that last thought is. And he knows the answers to the others. Of course Sherlock could be so stupid, so selfish, as to kill himself right in front of John. His perfect audience, his _blogger_. 

  
John hits the wall again and a strangled scream of pain escapes his lips. 

  
There are panicked steps coming up the stairs, and for one brief and horrifically painful moment he expects Sherlock to throw the door open and pull aside the shower curtain. But the footsteps stop at the door and someone knocks, heavy handed.

  
“John?”

It takes a long moment for John to place the voice, and then he chokes out, “Lestrade?”

  
“Are you alright?”

  
“What are you doing here? I’m. I’m fine.” But he feels sick, so sick to his stomach. Words get caught on his lips and seal them shut. He wants to tell Lestrade to just go away. He doesn’t want to see anyone. 

  
“Why don’t you come on out, John? I’ll be downstairs.”

  
“Don’t sit on the sofa!” John shouts, desperately. 

  
There is a long silence, and then Lestrade says, “Yes, okay, alright. I’ll see you down there.”

  
When John makes his way downstairs, leaning heavily on his cane, water still dripping from the ends of his hair, Lestrade is carefully examining the coat on the sofa.

  
“Don’t. Don’t touch that,” John manages to say, though his mouth does not seem to want to do as it’s told. 

  
Lestrade pulls his hand away and straightens to look at John. “Sorry, John, I just-” He stops, mouth open on the unfinished sentence as he stares John up and down. “You look terrible.”

  
A bitter smirk curls the end of John’s mouth and he nods his head. 

  
“Is this blood?" Lestrade asks. "On your coat?”

  
“Sherlock’s,” John answers, because why bother to hide it? He spent so much time worrying about what other people thought about he and Sherlock’s friendship and now Sherlock’s gone and John can’t be bothered to consider what other people might think. 

  
“Right. Listen, I know this is hard on you. It’s hard on all of us. Hell, Donovan took a week’s unpaid leave.”

  
“How nice for her. Sherlock is...,” he chokes on the word, biting the inside of his lip. He closes his eyes and shakes his head before continuing, “And Donovan takes a holiday. Am I meant to care about all this?” 

  
_“Not much cop, this caring lark.”_ John chokes on a sob, only barely manages to swallow it down.

  
“She feels guilty.”

  
“She should. You all should. Doubting him. Thinking he was a _fake_. You all should feel like the rotten pissers you are. Why are you _here_ , Lestrade?”

  
Lestrade looks as if John’s just punched him. It just makes John more furious. The other man’s mouth opens and closes several times before John turns away and starts making for the kitchen. He’s thinking about making tea. But it’s habit more than an actual desire to eat or drink anything. By the time he makes it to the kitchen he doesn’t even feel like going through the motions. 

  
He stands at the stove with his quickly swelling hand hovering over the tea pot, leaning heavily on his cane, breath wheezing from his lungs as if he’s run a marathon. Why can’t the world stop tilting off its axis? 

  
“Did you hurt your leg?” Lestrade asks from the doorway.

  
John shrugs. “Limp came back.” And when the silence goes on for too long, snarls, “ You aren’t here to check on my leg or worry over me using a cane, so _what do you want?_ ”

  
“Mrs. Hudson phoned me. She’s worried.” Lestrade says, voice thick with emotion.

  
John can't interpret the expression on Lestrade's face and doesn't have the energy to try. “I’m fine.”

  
“Yes, well, I can see that.”

  
“Oh, piss off.”

  
“You sound like him. Is that your plan? To become Sherlock in his place?”

  
John laughs, low and dark and bitter. “There is no one like Sherlock Holmes and he’s gone.” 

  
It aches to say those words. To admit that Sherlock Holmes is no longer in the world. A sound breaks free of John’s mouth again, just a moan of pain with no real form.

  
The minutes tick by and neither man says a word. John wants to sit down, wants to lean his head against the sofa and just breathe. 

  
“You were in love with him,” Lestrade says finally, so soft that John almost misses the words. “We always joked about it, but... you really were.”

  
And maybe John had been, still was. It doesn’t matter now. There’s nothing he can do about it. He closes his eyes. _“I don’t have friends. I’ve just got one.”_ Oh, Sherlock. John shakes his head but he doesn’t mean it for a denial and Lestrade, clever bloke that he can be, does not take it as such. 

  
“Please just go,” John whispers, voice breaking. “I can’t... I can’t.” He swallows back bile and finally pulls his hand away from the damned kettle. He does not want tea. 

  
“Good god, John, your hand,” Lestrade exclaims, taking a step forward.

  
John backs up into the stove, shoving his hand behind him. “It’s fine. Leave it. I’ll wrap it.” When Lestrade takes another step, John puts his uninjured hand up to stop him. “I’ve got it, Greg, please. Just go.”

  
“Right. I’ll come by later in the week.” Lestrade obviously wants to argue, but he shrugs on his jacket and hesitates at the door.

  
“Don’t.” 

  
“I’ll see you then, John.” As if John hadn’t spoken. As if his wants and wishes don't matter. And with one last, unreadable look, Lestrade leaves.

  
Breathing is so much easier once John’s alone. His leg gives out beneath him and he slides down the side of the stove, cane clattering to the floor beside him. 

  
Later he will pick himself up. He will wrap his swollen hand just as he said he would. He will hobble over to the sofa and sit down beside it. Then he will fall asleep and dream. Of flying. Of falling. Of the curious and indescribable eyes of Sherlock Holmes glazed over with death. 

  
But for now, John Watson covers his face and weeps.

 

                                                                                                    ***

 

He is not a murderer. At least, not by nature, or even really by choice. He might not have the moral values of, say, one John Watson, but even Sherlock understands that murder is frowned upon and does not take any particular joy in taking human life. Studying murder victims is not, despite what Sally Donovan might think, a step away from actually murdering people.

  
That being said, there is no remorse and a great deal of satisfaction in the snap of the neck he’s currently got his hands wrapped around. It's been five months. He has reached, with this latest kill, very near to the center of Moriarty’s web. He is close, so much closer than he was. And the closer he moves, the smaller the web shrinks, the fewer people he must hunt down. Sherlock estimates that he will have to dispose of, in one way or another, another five people before this is done.

  
Sherlock wishes that meant the end of it. But once he is done he has to be _sure_. He must retrace his steps, double back, change directions. He must know _absolutely_ , before he returns to London, that every piece of Moriarty’s plot is finished.

  
The phone in his pocket buzzes. He scowls as he retrieves it. He’s just changed phones and numbers, and now he'll have to waste precious time and resources doing it again.

  
"Busy," he snaps.

  
“Where are you?” His brother’s voice is more clipped than usual.

  
“Pakistan. Why?”

  
“Where in Pakistan, Sherlock?”

  
“I’m afraid I can’t say. What do you want? I called three weeks and five days ago. I’ve got at least another forty-eight hours on my _leash_.” The last word spit out because he does resent the fact that Mycroft insists on keeping track of him.

  
“It’s John.”

  
And that freezes the blood in Sherlock’s veins. His hand literally goes numb and tingly. As much as he has hated keeping in touch with Mycroft, it has been good to hear firsthand how John is doing, though lately the news has become less and less pleasant. Knowing John is floundering is not good at all, though it does help spur Sherlock on. 

  
“What’s happened?” Had Moriarty’s web gotten to John? Sherlock has been so careful about covering his tracks, making sure no one knows it’s him taking apart what James Moriarty had so carefully put together.

  
“He’s started your little website up again. He’s taking cases, Sherlock. With his cane and his shaking hand and his absolutely ordinary little brain. Do you see how dangerous this could be?”

  
Sherlock shakes his head, finding to his surprise that a genuine smile has overtaken his face. _Oh, John._ He had severely underestimated his friend, which wasn’t something he did often. But that was John, keeping Sherlock on his toes.

  
“There is nothing ordinary about John Watson,” the words slip out without permission as he peeks out a window to check the drop to the ground. Not too far, little more than seven feet. He can jump out easily. Slight risk of spraining an ankle, but minimal. “Hold on a moment, Mycroft. Honestly, you’re timing is appalling.” 

  
Sherlock slips the phone back into his pocket, tucks the file from the desk under his arm, and leaps from the window. He lands lightly on his feet and starts off at an easy jog towards the east. 

  
When he has managed to leave the sight of the compound behind him, he puts the phone to his ear and is actually surprised to realize his brother is still on the line. Mycroft must be worried indeed. 

  
“If you are done wasting my time, Sherlock.”

  
Sherlock sighs. “John is very cautious. And he was always useful to me on cases. It might do him good. It will get him out of the flat, which you have reported he doesn’t leave often.” 

  
Sherlock is not heartless, no. Moriarty taught him that. Knowing that John is suffering hurts him. Badly. And he doesn’t like the idea of John throwing himself into cases without Sherlock there to make the less obvious connections. But all he can do about it is work hard, finish this sooner. 

  
If John does start taking cases from the website he might stop focusing on Sherlock.  Mycroft has sent photos of the crime map of Sherlock's death that John has created on the wall of the flat. And it’s good. Not as good as if Sherlock were doing it, but good. Good enough that eventually, without distraction, he might just figure it out. 

  
“If you say so, Sherlock,” his brother says, in a tone that clearly indicates he thinks Sherlock is being particularly foolish. 

  
“Keep an _eye on him_ , Mycroft.” 

  
Sherlock has never, not for as long as he can remember, trusted his brother with anything he valued. But he has no choice in this. He must entrust into his brother’s keeping the single most important thing he has ever discovered.

  
Mycroft, shockingly, does not exploit this fact. He does not comment on the emotion in Sherlock’s voice, or Sherlock’s assertion that John is not ordinary, though Sherlock knows his brother has quite a bit to say about all of those things. He knows Mycroft looks at John and sees only those things Sherlock himself had seen upon first glance. A soldier, a doctor, the psychosomatic limp, the second hand phone, the face that practically begged strangers to trust him.

  
But John Watson- oh, John Watson merits a thousand glances and even then he would be surprising. And interesting. And never dull. Sherlock has never met a less dull person. Not Mycroft, whom Sherlock has always accepted as perhaps nearly his equal, or even Moriarty, who might have been a bit more clever, though it’s galling to admit. None of them shone as brilliantly as John Watson, not to Sherlock anyway.

  
It’s just taken a while for Sherlock to admit it. And that is galling. Ignorance of any sort is annoying to Sherlock, but being ignorant of his own mind is unforgivable. Sherlock should have recognized John’s value immediately. 

  
Sherlock sighs again.

  
This time Mycroft _tsks_ into his ear. “Lovelorn, Sherlock? I never thought I’d see the day.”

  
“Piss off.”

  
“It has been pleasant. Talk to you in another thirty days. And in the meantime I will do my all to see that John Watson does not succeed in killing himself. Oh, and I found a lead you may have missed. I’ll send the file via e-mail. Keep an eye out for it, will you?” The phone line goes dead.

  
Sherlock closes his eyes and breathes in the air that is definitely not London air, and when he opens them again he forces himself to focus on the files in his hand. In the dim light of almost-morning he finds the information he was looking for. Turkey. Of course. He should have known; all the clues lead there now.

_***  
_

_“It’s an experiment,” was all Sherlock said._

  
_John stood completely still, at parade rest, eyes focused on the curl of black hair across Sherlock’s forehead._   


  
_“An experiment that requires you to hold my face?” John queried, and the fingers on his face tightened marginally._   


  
_“I need to examine your pupils. And your breathing. In a moment I’m going to take your pulse. Just stand still, you’re twitching.” Sherlock’s breath ghosted over John’s face. Still minty fresh, meaning his flatmate hadn’t eaten all day._   


  
_“Right.” John wasn't twitching, Sherlock was, but John didn’t bother pointing it out. He simply kept his eyes on that piece of hair and waited for Sherlock to finish whatever it was he was up to._   


  
_Five minutes later and Sherlock’s hands were still tracing over his neck and face, and John wondered exactly how long Sherlock was going to keep him standing like that. But his hands were cool and dry and so soft. And John didn’t really mind standing there, being the subject of Sherlock’s intense scrutiny. He tried not to think about what that meant. The way he didn’t think about Sherlock in the shower with him after the pool._   


  
_“Open your eyes, John,” Sherlock huffed, and John did. He hadn’t even realized he'd closed them._   


  
_Sherlock was close, so very close. And when he looked into John’s eyes, his pale cheeks flushed pink and his eyes brightened and his perfect mouth fell open in a quiet, “Oh.”_   


  
_Sherlock was not human, of this John was quite sure and had been for some time. He ought to look odd, all hard angles and harsh edges... and those eyes. Those eyes. Oh, Sherlock was lovely. Like some sort of fae-child from a story book come to life. And grown into a man. A man with alarmingly long limbs and that milky neck and those perfect, perfect lips and-_   


  
_Sherlock let go of John’s face and backed away so fast that John’s head spun. John blinked, shook his head. He had to clear his throat three times before he could get out, “Got the data, then?” and even then he could hear how low and rough his voice was._   


  
_Sherlock was scribbling madly on a scrap piece of paper, but he froze at the sound of John’s voice. “Of course I did,” he answered, and went back to the paper. “Thank you.” The words were barely a whisper and so unexpected that John was sure he’d imagined them._   


  
_“Of course." John shifted his weight onto his good leg,and ran a hand over the back of his neck. Tea?”_   


  
_“Yes,” Sherlock answered._   


  
_Sherlock ignored him when he set the cup down on the desk and John went to sit down with the daily paper._   


  
_Exactly as they always did._   


  
It seems that John only ever gets to the _filling the kettle_ part of making tea these days. He can’t remember the last time he had a nice cuppa that didn’t come from Mrs. Hudson, or didn’t burn like acid going down. _Everything_ burns like acid going down. Food, water, words. 

  
He turns away from the kettle, only just remembering to turn the gas off. One day, he thinks, he will forget, and that might be nice. 

  
John makes his way into the main room. He stands beside the couch, his knees just touching it. His tongue licks nervously at his lips as he stares at the collage of pictures, articles, and notes on the wall above the couch. His own work, not Sherlock’s. So many connections to be made, and he does not have the mind of Sherlock Holmes to make them in a breath. He has spent months recreating the timeline leading up to Sherlock’s death. 

  
His eyes stray to the center of the collage, to the on-scene photo of Sherlock’s body. His vision goes blurry, an automatic reaction, so he does not actually see the content of the photo, though he can recall with perfect clarity the exact splatter of blood across Sherlock’s pale face. But while the picture itself is impossible for John to focus on, it helps to _keep_ him focused on the rest.

  
The hired killers, hired to save Sherlock but never to touch him. The robberies, not meant to really steal anything. The cases that led up to Moriarty revealing himself. John’s own memories of being taken. Sherlock’s reaction to Mrs. Hudson being shot. Had Sherlock arranged that? Or had Moriarty, to leave the path to Sherlock clear for himself? The inconsistencies in Sherlock’s behavior that day. Sherlock telling John he was a fraud. Which had been a lie, and no one, not even Sherlock, could convince John otherwise. 

  
But he is missing something. Something _important_.

  
He stares at the photo of Moriarty on the rooftop, a bullet through his skull. He hadn’t seen the actual body, but he managed to swipe the photo from the case file on Lestrade’s desk. Lestrade had been so thrilled to see John outside of the flat he hadn’t been paying much attention.

  
Now John makes it a point to meet up with Lestrade outside the flat, because it is absolutely necessary that no one see this.

  
Six months, it has been six months and it still makes no sense to John. Why Sherlock would jump, why he would do that. Sherlock was possibly certifiable, more than likely he was actually a high functioning sociopath. And perhaps, at some earlier tormented time in his youth, he had been suicidal. But no. _No_. The Sherlock John had known, and was sure he had known so well, would not have ended it like that. 

  
_“This is my note. That’s what people do, isn’t it? Leave a note.”_   


  
Sherlock was more likely to have sent a text. John grabs the yellow sticky pad from the side table and writes _called but didn’t text_ on it and then leans gingerly over the couch to stick in the space between Sherlock’s lifeless picture and a newspaper clipping of Saint Bart’s rooftop. 

  
_“Good. Very good. As usual you’ve missed all the important parts but... good.”_   


  
“Shut up, Sherlock.” 

  
John knows very well how mad it is to be answering the memory of a dead man’s voice in his head. He doesn’t care. Every time Sherlock’s voice pops up in his mind his heart beats a little faster, color returns to the world for just a moment. Yes. Mad. John Watson, having spent eighteen months by the side of Sherlock Holmes and now six months without him, has clearly gone mental.

  
“Why was it so important for me to believe you were a fraud? Tell Lestrade. Tell Mrs. Hudson. Tell anyone who will listen, you said. But why? Wasn’t it enough you were about to bloody well jump off a building?” 

  
But this is a conversation he’s had with himself a hundred times. Sherlock, he is certain, would have found the answer by now. The variable that would make the whole puzzle come together. 

  
He forces himself away from the wall and over to the desk. He’s been working a case, one he’s sure he’s close to solving. He has to meet with Lestrade, but then he has a thief to catch.

  
Lestrade is easy to milk for information. These days if John shows any interest in anything at all he's only too happy to ramble on. John's solved two private cases so far, and Lestrade has yet to catch on. Or if he knows, he's not saying anything. John is content with either option. 

  
Now they sit in a cafe drinking coffee, and Lestrade is going on about the elderly woman of means who won't stop badgering his office about this ridiculous missing stuffed animal. Family heirloom, she's calling it. And they've got one lead, but it isn't much of one, and Lestrade will check it out in the morning.

  
"Money," Lestrade says, with sincerity, "is the problem with our whole society. People think money means they can make demands whenever they want."

  
And John thinks, _complacency, idiocy, boredom, monsters in the dark that won't be happy until they've put out all the bright and shining things in the world_ \- that's what's wrong. But he says, "It always comes down to wealth of one kind of another." And Lestrade nods as if he's said something wise. 

  
The tip Lestrade doesn't follow, that John does as soon as they say their goodbyes, is the name of the nanny who used to watch the elderly woman. The nanny is dead by now, of course, but there is the matter of her daughter, Lila, and her grand-daughter. Lila is sick, has been sick for a long time, and she has nothing to fall back on. Her mother dedicated her whole life to that well-off family and had nothing to show for it- no inheritance, no property owned, no husband even- and now Lila's stuck with a wasting illness and am angry, grieving daughter and all her ire is aimed at the family her own mother had worked so hard for.  

  
The client wants him to keep this quiet, but it becomes impossible when the daughter comes at him with a kitchen knife and he ends up dislocating her shoulder and giving her a possible concussion on the kitchen counter.

  
He finds the stuffed animal while he waits for the police and the medics, a small stuffed pony that sings a sad, melancholy tune. It is, of course, what's inside the counts. A rare diamond ring from the 1800's. John pockets the ring. 

  
Lestrade is the only reason John doesn't end up in cuffs along side the daughter. He watches the paramedics roll the girl and her mother, in an oxygen mask, out to two waiting ambulances, and knows he should feel at least a little guilty. He doesn't. He feels nothing but the grim satisfaction at having seen the irregular seam on the stuffed pony. 

  
The flat is dark. Mrs. Hudson must have gone to sleep early or she would have gone up and put a light on. She doesn’t like John sitting in the dark, though John is often more than content to do so. John moves around the rooms, using the light of street torches to see by. 

  
He could, and maybe even should, fix himself a meal. The case is closed, after all; family heirloom restored, and Lestrade- shaking his head and lecturing the whole time- taking the girl into custody. It's very easy for forget that it used to be Sherlock, not John, who refused to eat while a case was on. 

  
John makes a small humming noise in the back of his throat, and goes to sit in Sherlock’s chair. 

  
The violin case is propped against the window. John pulls it into his lap and holds it there like a sleeping child. Outside, the light splatter of rain has become a solid sheet of water. 

  
“Well, Sherlock, that took much longer than it would have had you been around to do it,” John says to the dark room. 

  
The silence is oppressive. He opens the case and lifts out the violin. Gently, so gently. 

  
“Took me forever to notice the indent on the daughter's finger. You’d have seen that right off and called it a closed case. Took me two days, Lestrade's lead, and a lumpy stuffed animal to figure it out.”

  
This time when no one answers John gently plucks a lone string. The single note is sharp and cutting. John chuckles.

  
“Yeah, well, never was the genius of the two of us, was I? That was your part.” John lowers his head, as if there is anyone to see his tears.

  
His fingers gently pull another string. High and sorrowful and inelegant. 

  
“You tosser,” he gasps out.

  
And for a while there is nothing but the short, sweet sound of plucked violin strings and John’s hushed sobbing to accompany them.

 

                                                                                                                  ***

 

Bullets _hurt_. 

  
Sherlock really must stop deleting this information, and, possibly, stop putting himself in the path of them. He shrugs into his coat with great care for his bandaged arm. There are painkillers in his pocket, but he’s loathe to take them. The pain isn’t so bad anymore, after all. More an annoyance than anything, because it’s hindering his motion, making him slower. And he does have a train to catch.

  
Quite literally.  

  
He rises to his feet from where he’s been crouched atop the rain shelter of an out of use train station and counts a beat in his head. He misses his violin quite violently in the moment before he leaps from the roof to the train. He hits hard and rolls, but stops himself dead center. His arm is bleeding again, but that will have to wait. He is at the very center of Moriarty’s web, here on the roof of the speeding train. The last of Moriarty’s men is two cars ahead of him, being pleasured by a very ordinary looking blonde woman. 

  
Sherlock will give the man a few more moments before killing him. He has no desire to see the assassin’s face as he ejaculates. He grimaces in distaste at the thought.

  
He breathes in harshly through his teeth until the pain in his arm is manageable and then begins moving towards the intended train car. 

  
The very ordinary looking blonde, it turns out, is quite the proficient body guard. And Sherlock really must be getting sloppy- _stupid, impatient, reckless, and this is what happens when feelings get in the way of the work_ \- to not have fully realized the woman’s position here. By the time Sherlock has put a bullet through her forehead, and two more in the knees of Sebastian Moran, Sherlock is certain his already injured arm has been completely dislocated, the wound reopened, several of his ribs broken with one having punctured a lung, and his knee wrenched. That’s not to mention the black eye he will have come morning or the blood flooding his mouth. 

  
Sherlock does not waste time asking questions. Moran will not talk, of this he is certain. 

  
The man relaxes, _relaxes_ , even with two shot knees, and gives Sherlock a smug once over. “I should have known you weren’t dead,” he says. 

  
To which Sherlock replies, “No. If you were cleverer, perhaps. But we both know James Moriarty was the clever one in this outfit.” He motions around the car. “A moving home base. Very clever. Putting you in charge of it? Not so very much.” And puts three very neat shots into the man’s brain. “Sorry, no time to chat.”

  
And with the last of his strength and his consciousness, both of which are draining at an alarming rate, Sherlock does two things. One- he snatches the pocket watch from Moran’s dead body, within which Sherlock will find any data he may have missed on Moriarty’s doings. And two- rings his brother’s mobile. He does not stay on his feet or awake long enough to hear his brother answer, but he’s quite certain Mycroft will put it all together. He’s still got two weeks and four days before he’s do for another call, after all. 

  
His brother’s face is not the first thing he enjoys seeing upon waking under any circumstances. But certainly, bouncing jauntily on rugged back roads in what can only be described as an entire hospital ward on wheels is worse than usual. 

  
Sherlock does not ask the obvious questions. Such as, where are they? Where are they headed? What the bloody hell are we riding in?

  
He also does not intend to ask, “John?” But that is the first word that makes it past his lips.

  
His brother’s smug, knowing, smile makes him want to hit something. Or possibly shoot Moran again. Moran was, he knows, the one Moriarty had sent after the army doctor and that really made it all the more personal for Sherlock.

  
“We are taking you to him, currently,” Mycroft answers, the smile slipping off his face. 

  
“What?” he demands sharply. “No, it’s too soon. I have to retrace my steps, go over the list again. I’ve got to look at Moran’s information. Mycroft, stop this thing, I can’t go back to London yet!”

  
But he has all the strength of a wet kitten and when he struggles to sit up Mycroft pushes him back down with one hand.

  
“It is taken care of, Sherlock. You’ve done your part. Let my people do the rest.” Sherlock snorts and Mycroft ignores him. “This has gone on long enough, this charade of your death. It’s time to go home.”

  

“You just want the credit,” Sherlock snaps, but his heart isn't in it. He’s too busy trying to figure out how he can get himself out of here. 

  
“John has been shot, Sherlock.” And those words cut through Sherlock’s brain like a hot knife through butter.

“Anthea is with him now; the doctors have him in surgery.”

  
Anthea. If Mycroft has sent Anthea then it's bad. Sherlock closes his eyes, feeling  a weakening in his limbs that has nothing to do with his injuries. His hands and feet are made of ice. 

  
“She will be sending me updates, Sherlock. And we are getting you back to London as fast as we can.” And Sherlock hated Mycroft all the more for the sympathy in his voice and the understanding in his face. 

  
“How?” Sherlock finally manages to get out. 

  
Mycroft’s eyes narrow and every line in his face screams I told you so.

  
“He was working a case,” Sherlock provides, before Mycroft can voice the answer. 

  
“I did tell you he was a danger to himself,” Mycroft murmurs.

  
“He’s always handled himself well before.”

  
“He had you, before, putting the pieces of the puzzle together.”

  
Sherlock scoffs. “He was in Afghanistan, an army doctor. He can take care of himself.”

  
Mycroft twitches his umbrella. The smallest motion but it clearly says he is done trying to make Sherlock see sense.

  
“Where?”

  
“He was shot in the chest, very nearly dead center, but just to the right. He was chasing down a murderer near the London Canal Museum. He was near the water.”

  
Sherlock frowns, thinking through all the possible angles in which John would have gotten hit, how far the nearest hospital was. “How long before he was taken to hospital?”

  
“As you know I’ve been monitoring your Doctor Watson’s activities. He went off the radar at ten o’two, but his destination was clear. Anthea arrived with back up by ten-nineteen. He’d already been shot by then, though to his credit the murderer he’d tracked down was dead not far from him. Once the ambulance arrived they assessed his heart rate at one twenty, respiratory rate was forty, and blood pressure at ninety over sixty.” Mycroft stopped, as if this would be enough information and Sherlock made an impatient noise. “He was suffering open pneumothorax. The last I heard they were performing a pericardiocentesis due to suspected pericardial tamponade.” Mycroft took a deep breath. “He is in the best hands, Sherlock. I have no doubt he will survive this encounter.”

  
“How long?” Sherlock demands.

  
“There is a private plane waiting at an airstrip for us. But the airstrip, I’m afraid, is quite some distance. You took yourself quite out of the way, Sherlock. We will be in London in two days.” At Sherlock’s mutinous expression, Mycroft scowled. “And if you plan on causing trouble then I shall keep you sedated the entire time. I’m not going to have you harassing the private doctors and pushing yourself past reason. When was the last time you ate? Or slept? And do you realize that jumping on top of a high speed train when you were shot barely more than a week ago is perhaps not the wisest of decisions? Honestly, Sherlock. If mummy knew half of what you get up to-”

  
“Oh, please just sedate me already. I took care of Sebastian Moran, I got every last one of them, and all the information we need on Moriarty and his plans. The decision was not only wise it was necessary.”

  
It is only now, as a needle is pushed into his forearm, that Sherlock even notices the doctor near his head. He glares at the man and he collapses in on himself and scoots away. 

  
“I was not being literal, you simpering moron.” But he’s not sure that the words come out properly, as the medicine is taking him down quite quickly. He turns his head, which feels so very heavy on his neck just now, to look at Mycroft. “You get me there in one day. One day, Mycroft.”

  
If Mycroft answers, Sherlock is no longer awake to hear it. 

 

                                                                                                                                                    ***

 

“- being an idiot, John. Now wake up.” 

  
John knows that voice, would know it any time and any place. He knows that voice is gone, that he will never hear it again outside of the confines of his grief stricken mind. But it sounds so real, so close, that he just keeps his eyes closed and listens.

  
“- considered all the possible outcomes and yet somehow never once thought you’d end up getting shot while playing at being me. What kind of nonsense is that? You aren’t in a war anymore; no one’s expecting you to be a bloody hero.” A pause for a deep and dramatic breath. “And what did I tell you about heroes, John?”

  
“Heroes don’t exist. And even if they did, I wouldn’t be one of them,” John breathes out. It hurts so much just to gather the strength in his lungs required for words. 

  
John does not open his eyes. He has no clue where he is, or why, or even when. He just knows that he’s warm and mostly comfortable- except for that tightness in his chest, but why worry- and that Sherlock’s voice is berating him for being an idiot. It is the best he’s felt in months.

  
The air is still and silent and taut with tension for a long moment. And then, “Yes. Exactly.”

  
“First time you ever disappointed me,” John says, licking his dry lips with a tongue that feels made out of cotton. 

  
“Not the last,” Sherlock’s voice says, and John nods slightly in the affirmative.

  
“Last was the jump.”

  
The silence stretches again and John wonders if he hasn’t pushed this wonderful apparition away. If he hasn’t chased Sherlock’s voice out of his head for good. _Oh, please,_ he thinks, _not that. I need that voice_.

  
“The fall,” that deep voice finally corrects. “Jumping would have looked ridiculous. Falling was much more effective, as it were. Too effective, if I’m to go by the state of you. You’re downright diminished, John. And the cane? There isn’t a thing wrong with you.”

  
John barks out a bitter laugh and it hurts- hurts so much, why does it hurt so much- but he can’t stop it.

  
“I see nothing amusing about the situation you’ve gotten yourself into.”

  
“Oh god, I’ve gone completely mental, haven’t I? Getting lectured by a dead man. Am I in the ward? If I open my eyes will I see padded walls? I’ve finally snapped.” Another bitter laugh. “Well, good on you, Sherlock Holmes, did what invading bloody Afghanistan couldn’t do, didn't you? Broke Doctor bloody John Watson.”

  
“You’ve gone dramatic in my absence.” There is a shifting in the air, the rustle of cloth, a shoe tapping to the ground. The bed dips. “Open your eyes, John. You’ll be angry, and I want to get that part out of the way.”

  
John shakes his head. _No, no, no_. He won’t. He won’t _open his eyes_. His left hand trembles so hard the rail on the side of the bed shakes. A hospital then. He is in hospital. He can feel the IV in his vein now. The scratchy, too stiff feeling of hospital bed dressings. He’s dying, maybe. And that would be okay.

  
“John.” Oh, how he has missed his name spoken just like that. “Please.”

  
“It can’t be you,” John whispers and tears are burning, burning like Afghan sand, in his eyes. “And if it’s not it will kill me. I am not _strong_ _enough_.” Another swipe across his dry lips, but his tongue isn’t wet enough to do anything. He chokes on sob. God, fuck, bugger, piss- it _hurts_.

  
“I’d had a thought, a hypothesis of sorts, while I was gone- that you would be somehow less interesting when I came back,” Sherlock says, his voice catching, in a way that is almost completely unfamiliar to John, who knows every cadence of Sherlock’s voice. “But I was so delightfully wrong. You are an enigma. You should be boring, don’t scowl, you know you should be. But you aren’t. I’d forgotten how hard it was to even categorize your hair color. You have 5.6 percent more gray hair than when I fell. And you’re so thin you could wear one of my shirts. One of the dark colors; the light ones would wash you out.”

  
A warm, soft hand circles around John’s left wrist, stilling the tremors momentarily. And it’s too much. Tears are dripping down John’s face but he _cannot_ open his eyes.

  
“Are you trying to sweet talk me?” John asks, incredulous. And if he needed proof that he’s out of his head, this should do. Sherlock Holmes sweet talking anyone without it being a sham is impossible.

  
“He was going to have you killed,” Sherlock says, ignoring John's interruption and still infuriatingly calm. “I had to die so you could live. Do you understand? I have never felt the need to protect anyone, John, but I couldn’t let him hurt you. So I had to hurt you instead.” John’s hand is turned over and dry lips press against his wrist. He shudders and that hurts, too. “You’ll forgive me, I know you will. But you can be angry at me first, I’ll understand this time. But John, do this for me, open your eyes. I need to see how many colors there are.”

  
John knows exactly how many colors are in Sherlock’s eyes, how many shades of blue and green and gray and not a single speck of brown or gold. Sometimes so light they seem almost violet, even though Sherlock would argue that true violet only comes from albinism and Sherlock is most certainly not an albino. 

  
Sherlock’s eyes are a dark and stormy gray when John finally, finally, opens his own, and ringed with a fine line of blue. Worried. Preoccupied. John knows not just the colors but the mood of those eyes as well.

  
“Sherlock.” Name like a benediction from between his lips.

  
Sherlock’s lips are still grazing against the sensitive skin of John’s wrist, and he’s looking up at John through unruly black curls. 

  
“You complete and utter bastard. You heartless, cruel, _monster_ ,” John chokes out.

  
Sherlock almost smiles. “I know. And I am sorry, John.” It isn't often he's heard those words out of that mouth. That perfect mouth. “So many shades of blue, John.” And then Sherlock does smile, that real and devious and heartbreaking smile of his. “If I wrote terrible sonnets to the color of your eyes would you forgive me?”

  
“No,” John says, and he bloody well means it. “You’re really here. In the hospital? Oh god,” he moans low in his  
throat, his stomach churning. “This isn’t Saint Bart’s, is it?” Panic- his chest tightens and seizes. He hasn’t gone near Saint Bart’s since Sherlock jumped.

  
“Calm down. Breathe. It’s not Saint Bart’s. Listen to me. _Breathe_.”

  
“You jumped off the bloody roof, Sherlock! I saw you, saw the blood, oh god, I felt your- you had no pulse.” He can’t breathe. Fuck. Sherlock was dead. Dead. And John’s been withering away and blaming himself and begging for miracles. “How? How?”

  
The door bursts open and a nurse rushes in. “What’s going on here, then? Mr. Holmes, you were told not to distress him!”

  
Sherlock leaps nimbly from the bed as the woman swats at him. He retreats to the far corner, eyes glued to John, his fingers tapping a nervous rhythm on his thigh. And having Sherlock that far away is worse than not understanding how he didn’t die, or why he’s been gone, or how he’s back. Sherlock seems less real in the corner of the room, where, because it’s night out- John hadn’t even noticed- the harsh overhead light throws deep shadows around the room as well. 

  
The nurse is trying to inject something into his IV, but John pushes her away, a feeble attempt that leaves her staggering nonetheless. And he hisses in pain because _oh god, it hurts. Everything hurts._  


  
“Sherlock,” John grinds out, through clenched teeth. 

  
And then Sherlock is not in the corner of the room anymore. Sherlock is sitting on the side of the bed, one long fingered hand held out to keep the nurse at bay, the other grasping John’s wrist again.

  
“It’s too much, let her give you something. I will be here when you wake again. Rest now, John,” Sherlock says, voice even deeper than usual, as if he’s putting John into a trance. And maybe he is. 

  
John doesn’t notice, for instance, when the nurse comes close again and injects the pain medication and the sedative into his IV. And even as his eyes begin to flutter shut John keeps them trained on Sherlock’s face. 

  
“I will be right here,” Sherlock says once more. 

  
John’s eyes close. He sleeps again. 

  
When John opens his eyes, hours or maybe even days later, he’s quicker to grasp the reality of his situation. He remembers very clearly going after that murderer, just enough time to text Lestrade, but not enough to wait for back up. He remembers getting shot, shooting the man, and then the chaos of... Anthea and a squad of what looked like special forces...? He isn’t sure about that last part. But he _is_ in a private room and that speaks of Mycroft’s influence. 

  
Sherlock is, as promised, still there. He is asleep in the chair beside John, his feet on the bed and snugged under John’s leg. John stares. He stares at the long column of Sherlock’s neck, the wild mess of black curls, one arm dangling over the side of the chair, fingers twitching slightly in his sleep.

  
John’s breath catches in his throat. He had thought that perhaps it was just a dream, waking up earlier to Sherlock being here and alive. It would make more sense. Nothing makes sense anymore, but that’s fine. It’s better than fine. So much better than the way nothing made sense just a day or two ago, when Sherlock was dead and buried and John couldn’t let him go. This is the kind of topsy turvy swan dive that means adrenaline rushes, and chasing after Sherlock who’s chasing down a criminal. This is confusing showers and experiments where Sherlock puts his hands on John’s face. This is tea and the violin and a smiley face in the wall with bullet holes- and this is _perfect_ , Christmas a thousand times over.

  
Sherlock does not sleep often; John’s not sure he can remember when he’s had a chance to just watch him like this. Of course, he sees other things, too, the longer he stares. The healing black eye Sherlock is sporting, the bandage that peeks out just below his rolled up sleeve, the cuts on his cheek, a bruise on his neck. He’s thinner than ever, but the muscle under his dress shirt seems more defined. What has he been doing, all this time he was supposed to be dead?

  
With that thought it is entirely too much to be so close to Sherlock and him being so still. 

  
“Sherlock,” John says, voice still a rough whisper.

  
Sherlock jerks awake, eyes wide, hands flying to John’s leg and gripping tightly, manically. “John.” His eyes rove over John’s form, and John can practically see the thoughts as they come to him. 

  
“You’re really alive,” John whispers, and Sherlock’s hands tighten on his leg.

  
“Yes.”

  
“And you did this, you left me like this, let me think you were dead... because Moriarty threatened me?”  The need to understand burns under John’s skin.

  
“You. Lestrade. Mrs. Hudson.” Sherlock’s eyes are sharp on John’s face.

  
John nodded. “So you... faked the fall. And then... what? You went after Moriarty’s men?”

  
A small smile lifts the corner of Sherlock’s mouth, which is all the answer he gives. Unusual, since Sherlock likes to show off his thought process, but John continues.

  
“And you must have gotten them. There’s no way you came back just because I got shot.” And if there’s bitterness in his voice because of that, knowing that nearly dying wouldn’t be enough to make Sherlock come back, John thinks he’s justified. He’s spent months slowly dying in mourning for this man.

  
“So... we’re,” John ran a nervous tongue over his lips, “we’re safe now?”

  
Sherlock stands, too much nervous energy to be still any longer. John can see it thrumming through him as if he had x-ray vision. “You will be. I tracked down all of Moriarty’s men. I found all the plans, all the information he had, files and memory sticks. I was brilliant, you would have told me I was brilliant.” A glance in John’s direction that is almost nervous behind the gleam of self-satisfaction. “I was to back track, after that. After I killed the last man standing.”

  
“Killed?” John chokes on the word. Sherlock has done many things, but John doesn't think he’s ever killed a man before.

  
Sherlock freezes, a complete lack of motion that is jarring in comparison to his previous pacing. He does not turn to John. “Some of them I left for local authorities, some for Mycroft’s men. Some of them... some of them I killed. Sebastian Moran, I killed. He had a sniper rifle...” As Sherlock trailed off he raised his hand, forming his fingers into a gun and pointing them at John. “It was trained on your head, that day. So yes, John, I killed. You’ve killed for me, did you doubt I would be willing to do the same?” He does look at John now, down the imaginary sight of the imaginary rifle he has turned his arm into.

  
“Stop that,” John snaps, and Sherlock’s arm falls to his side.

  
“Of course,” Sherlock says, chastised. “The plan was to back track, cover my steps and retrace them, make sure I’d followed every lead. I could leave no loose ends.” 

  
Sherlock stops talking and is silent for so long that John wonders if the man even remembers where he is.

  
“But you were hurt?” John prompts.

  
Sherlock comes around the side of the bed and sits beside John, taking up his wrist in his long fingers, the tips resting on John’s pulse point and pressing in. It’s a bit distracting.

  
“I was shot. But it was a clean wound, right through with minimal muscle damage. I didn’t have time to waste. Moran was on a train, headed towards Switzerland and I couldn’t let him out of my grasp. So I went after the train. Thought the woman he had with him was just a prostitute, but she turned out to be a fairly proficient bodyguard. It’s a shame, I think, to have to shoot a woman, but she did break the rib that very nearly punctured my lung. I thought it had, actually, but it's forgivable to make a mistake when one is struggling to stay conscious. So I had little choice.” He raises John’s wrist to his lips, not quite touching, but breathing against John’s skin.

  
John’s loses focus a bit, all of his attention on the flesh of his wrist which has never seemed so sensitive before. He can hear his heart beating in his ears. He remembers Sherlock in the bath with him, remembers Sherlock’s voice on the phone before he fell, the feel of those beautiful, violinist fingers on his neck. He forgets to breathe. Sherlock’s head tilts, just a fraction, and then his lips do touch John’s skin. Warm and wet and open, the barest touch of tongue against John’s vein. 

  
“Sherlock,” he gasps, and he doesn’t even recognize his own voice.

  
“I killed Moran, the idiot. He never should have aimed a gun at you. I don’t _enjoy_ murdering people, John, but I swear that I _will_ kill any man, woman, or child, who points a gun at you again.”

  
John can feel the fury under Sherlock’s skin. It burns with its intensity and makes John shudder in a way that it shouldn’t. Not with fear, or worry, or even disapproval. But with _want_. “Bit not good,” he manages to get out.

  
Sherlock smiles and it should be a terrifying smile, but it isn’t. It’s beautiful, and John has missed even this part of Sherlock. The dark part, the part that would take a pill to prove he’s clever, or jump up and down and call serial suicides Christmas, the part that would fake his death. 

  
“I know,” Sherlock says. And John thinks that might actually be an improvement because there was a time when  
Sherlock might not have known how not good that sentiment was. 

  
“Finish,” John demands, and Sherlock’s lips leave his wrist.

  
“I was injured, and Mycroft rode in to save the day. He told me you’d been shot. Honestly, John, you were a military man, shouldn’t you have been more careful? And why on earth were you taking cases? You were supposed to be _safe_ here in London. That’s why I didn’t bring you _with_ me.”

  
“He was murdering kids. The police had nothing to go on and I received an email from one of the victim’s twin sister.”

  
“You got emotionally involved, of course you did. It doesn’t help to feel, to care.”

  
John closes his eyes. “Just shut up, Sherlock.”

  
To John’s surprise Sherlock does, at least for a handful of seconds. When he opens his eyes again there is something very close to hurt in Sherlock’s eyes. “You had to believe I was dead, John. I couldn’t keep you alive any other way. And I could not let you die. _I haven’t figured you out yet_ , do you understand? I don’t think I will ever finish figuring you out, and I have to. _I have to figure you out_. Can you comprehend what I’m saying to you?” There’s is something desperate in Sherlock’s tone. Something unfamiliar. 

  
John swallows; his throat is so dry. Sherlock releases his wrist long enough to pour a cup of water and hand it to John, who swallows it down as fast as he can. 

  
“Thought you said it didn’t pay to care,” John reminds him, but gently.

  
“ _John_.” And Sherlock’s voice is so quiet and desperate he almost sounds like a completely different man. “Do you understand?” he asks again.

  
John takes in a deep breath, eyes fluttering shut before opening and meeting Sherlock’s. “I’m not boring,” John says. And Sherlock grasps John’s wrist again. “I’m not boring even though I should be, and you hardly ever find people interesting. Not really. Maybe the woman and maybe Moriarty, but they’re different. I’m like... a case.”

  
“Better than a case. But fine. Yes. A case I can’t solve,” Sherlock points out.

  
“But a case you are desperate to solve because...” John raises an eyebrow because this is honestly as far as he can follow Sherlock’s logic.

  
“Because every part of it is so interesting. Your confounding, normal thought processes don’t apply.” Sherlock’s eyes stray to John’s lips then back up to his eyes. John swallows hard.

  
“But I didn’t think... that is, I mean- I didn’t think you thought... about... stuff like that. I mean, Irene Adler aside, because she got to you, obviously. But I mean, Sherlock?” John’s eyes crinkle in confusion, brows drawing close in a frown. 

  
“Don’t be stupid now, John. _You can’t be stupid right now_. I need you to be as clever as I know you can be.”

  
John sputters. Because, yes, if he has to be honest, he has thought about he and Sherlock and what it could be like to have that attention centered on him and only him. To have someone as closed off and detached as Sherlock actually- but despite the occasional line being crossed Sherlock has always seemed disinterested. And then he’d been dead.

  
John decides to take a chance- honestly, when you’re sitting in a hospital recovering from a gunshot wound to the chest and the man you’re fairly certain you’re in love with is back from the dead, you probably should take a chance.

  
“You love me,” John says. 

  
Sherlock winces as if John has slapped him or called him ordinary, but he doesn’t argue. 

  
“Well, that’s good, you sodding bastard. I love you, too.” 

  
Sherlock is not precisely gentle. John suspects he may never be. Sherlock leans forward, careless of the IVs and the tubes and either of their injuries, and presses his lips to John’s. He straddles John’s thighs, cups John’s face in his hands, and tilts it in every possibly direction until he finds the perfect angle. And it _is_ perfect. Sherlock’s lips are warm, so much warmer than John would have suspected, and he kisses like he does everything- with a mad precision that only makes sense in Sherlock’s head, and John’s entire body feels aflame at that much focus being directed at him.

  
Sherlock’s fingers trace down John’s neck, over his collarbone, run gently over the bandages on John’s chest. He bites John’s lower lip, licking into his mouth. And John moans into the kiss, into Sherlock, because _fuck_ , he didn’t even realize how much he wanted this. Even when Sherlock was gone, he couldn’t have admitted it. But Sherlock is straddling John’s lap and undulating like a bloody dancer and yet all the time there is a still, quiet mastery of the moment. There’s nothing to deny anymore, really.

  
Moving hurts, but John does his best to ignore that as he reaches one hand up to curl around the back of Sherlock’s neck- the long, perfect, pale neck that John has wanted to touch for so long- and pull him closer. He threads his fingers through the silky, softness of Sherlock’s curls, and Sherlock makes a high, keening, desperate noise that John takes greedily from Sherlock’s mouth into his own. And this, this he wants even more, to break Sherlock apart and put him back together. To be the reason that Sherlock’s head is quiet for once. Or just too full of John for there to be anything else. 

  
Sherlock’s hands move away from his wound, and those pale fingers, with their neat and rounded nails, dig into John’s hips. There’s no rhythm to the kissing anymore because Sherlock has gone completely and utterly mad, and John’s fairly certain he’s being drawn into Sherlock, taken completely from his body to co-habit the other man’s. And maybe Sherlock _is_ a fae creature. He did come back from the dead after all.

  
The door banging open does not interrupt them, they don’t even notice. They don’t notice the alarms at John’s bedside going off either, for that matter. 

  
The only reason John stops kissing Sherlock is because suddenly Sherlock is not there to be kissed. John’s eyes fly open, a rapid panic rising into his chest, because Sherlock can’t just disappear on him like that. But that bloody nurse is back and berating Sherlock and Sherlock’s a million miles away on the other side of the room.

And what if John is just imagining all of this-

  
“Hey, hey! Stop! Let him come back!” Because everything was fine when Sherlock was right there, touching him, but when he’s all the way across the room it’s easier to believe that he’s not _really_ there. “Sherlock!” 

  
“Get out of my way,” Sherlock snarls. 

  
The nurse backs away, saying, “I’m going to get his doctor and security! Do you hear me?”

  
“Do that,” Sherlock says, without looking away from John. He climbs right back onto the bed, not straddling John

now, but pressed all up against his left side. “I’m right here, John.”

  
And John breathes in deep and grasps for Sherlock’s hand. “Right, I know. Of course. There you are.” But his  
heart is pounding and it’s possible his stitches have ripped a bit. 

  
“I shouldn’t have done that here. Look at you, bleeding again.” Sherlock sounds more annoyed than worried, though, so John’s not fussed about it. When John makes no comment, Sherlock continues, when John makes no comment. “You aren’t as angry as I thought you’d be. I’d anticipated you being in a strop for days, maybe even weeks.”

  
“I’m on a lot of medication for the pain. Once I’ve sobered up I imagine I’ll want to punch you more than a few times.”

  
“Of course,” Sherlock says. “Not in the face, though.”

  
“No. In the face. Definitely in the face.”

  
They are quiet, while outside there is a growing commotion.

  
“They’re going to try to make you leave,” John says. 

  
Sherlock snorts and lowers his head to rest on John’s shoulder, tucking his nose against John’s neck. Sherlock is not one to respect personal space. Apparently Sherlock, given implied permission to ignore said personal space, is like a giant house cat. He might as well be purring. 

  
“They can try.”

  
***

 

True to his word, once he’s weaned off the pain meds and given leave to go home, several weeks later and both John and Sherlock do their fair share of complaing, John does indeed deck Sherlock. Once in the face, and then in the stomach, before Sherlock clumsily pulls him down to the floor of 221B Baker Street and pins him down. John does a piss poor job of trying to fight him and Sherlock's trying to avoid any more injuries as best he can.

By the time they settle down they are both sore, there’s blood on Sherlock's face, and they are giggling like children on the playground. It is familiar and warm and Sherlock’s brain is mercifully quiet as he takes in his old home, everything exactly as he left it nearly a year ago. He feels very nearly sentimental over it. 

  
John rolls over and curls in close to Sherlock’s side, Sherlock puts his arm around him and they lay there until Mrs. Hudson comes up the stairs to fuss over them. He can feel John’s ribs underneath the muscle of his stomach _not eating properly, but taking cases had kept him in shape_ , there are more crow’s feet at the edge of his eyes _not laugh lines, these are clear lines of stress_ , and he has 6.7 percent more gray hair _most on his right side of his head, just at his temple_. Sherlock had counted them wrong earlier. Sherlock presses his nose just there and breathes in. John smells warm, he smells of pleasant but cheap cologne, and tea.

  
“Oh, boys! That’s hardly appropriate. Are you bleeding? Should I be phoning nine-nine-nine?” She leans over them, cheeks flush with worry and a tray with tea balanced precariously in her shaking hands.

  
“No, no, Mrs. Hudson. We’re fine. We’re quite fine. Just a bit of a tumble,” John says, pulling away from Sherlock.

  
Sherlock jumps to his feet and helps John up with an exaggerated care that has John glaring at him. Clearly Sherlock is not completely forgiven. He smiles as winsomely as he can at his companion and is rewarded with a flush spilling over John’s cheeks and down towards his neck. Sherlock finds the curve of John’s jaw ridiculously distracting. He leans over and presses an open mouthed kiss to the place where John’s jaw just reaches his neck before he realizes what he is doing.

  
“Sherlock!” Mrs. Hudson sounds properly scandalized, but she’s smiling, and John is staring at him as if he’s grown a second head. 

  
“You should really have some tea, John. And let me take a look at your stitches,” Sherlock says smoothly, taking a cup of tea for himself with a brief nod to Mrs. Hudson.

  
“Oh, Sherlock. It’s so good to have you back.” Mrs. Hudson pats his cheek and then turns to fuss over John. 

  
She has John in his chair, feet up, blanket over him and hot tea in hand, in a whirl of movement. A plate of biscuits rests on the table beside him. John sputtering and protesting the whole time, looks young and small now. Sherlock kneels down beside the chair and looks up into John’s face, suddenly needing to be close enough to touch, if not actually touching. John looks startled. 

  
They are silent for a very long time, just watching one another. John’s got a new bruise forming on his cheek and Sherlock knows he’s got one himself. But these bruises are okay, bruises they’ve given each other. John can mark him as much as he’d like, in any way he’d like, and Sherlock won’t mind. 

  
Mrs. Hudson leaves with a quick clearing of her throat and a softly muttered, “I’ll just let you two settle in then.”

  
When they are alone, John reaches out, hand warm from resting on the tea cup, and traces his fingers over Sherlock’s face. Sherlock is watching John's face when John looks over to where the gruesome map of Sherlock’s death had been. It’s gone, of course. There was no way Sherlock had been going to leave it there. He’d taken it down just before going to pick John up from the hospital.

  
“Where is it?” John asks, and there is a keen note of desperation in his voice.

  
“I took it down,” Sherlock replies. The hand on his cheek trembles.

  
“Why?”

  
Sherlock rolls his eyes, he can’t help it. “I’m still alive, that’s why. I think we’re beyond you figuring out how I died.” 

  
Sherlock can see the responses John thinks up and then throws away as rubbish without even speaking them.

  
“You can’t ever do that to me again,” John says, finally. 

  
And that is not exactly what Sherlock was expecting, at least not right then. Which is, of course, the very reason he must have John Watson in his life forever. 

  
“It was necessary-”

  
“Never. Again. Sherlock, I mean it. I can’t...” The sound that comes out of John’s mouth is somewhere in between a moan and a broken hum. “I can’t. Never again, no matter how much you think it will keep me safe. You don’t get to die on me again.”

  
“I don’t understand why you’re harping on this so, John. I’ve explained why I had to do it, and you’ve punched me for it. I was doing what I had to do. Would you rather I have let Moran shoot you?”

  
John’s entire body is clearly telling Sherlock to shut up. And some instinctive part of Sherlock _does_ realize that it might be best for him to agree and then to shut up. But-

  
Sherlock breathes in deeply through his nose and stares in silence for a while at the wall.

  
“Yes. Alright,” he finally says. Instinct, while sometimes cumbersome, seems the best route at the moment. 

  
John blinks at him. And blinks again. “Did you just agree?” 

  
Sherlock smiles. “Yes.”

  
“Oh, well. Okay then.” John takes a sip of his tea, still staring at Sherlock.

  
“I won’t disappear if you look away,” Sherlock tells him. 

  
John snorts.

  
Sherlock becomes restless and stands, moving around the room while John sips his tea. He can feel the weight of John’s eyes on him as he does. He runs his hands over his equipment, pauses to consider his violin, and looks out the window. Sherlock stops at the smiley face on the wall and grins at it. 

  
He looks down at the couch, at the black jacket carefully laid across the back of it. It’s John’s jacket and Sherlock hadn’t moved it. He’s not quite sure why, but while it had been imperative to get rid of that gruesome diorama on the wall, the jacket had seemed altogether too fragile a thing to touch. Sentimentality, he might just be starting to understand it. Sherlock reaches out, gently running a finger over the collar, and hears John draw in a sharp breath. 

  
“Sherlock,” John’s voice is low and imploring. As if he doesn’t want to discuss the jacket. Or the fact that the couch still smells like Sherlock while the rest of flat smells either empty or of John himself. 

  
“It isn’t really my blood,” Sherlock says, finally. It almost feels like an apology. Maybe it is. Sherlock’s not quite sure. 

  
“Obviously.”

  
“It did... pain me to do this to you, John.”

  
“I’m tired, Sherlock. I don’t, I can’t.” 

  
“We’ll get it dry-cleaned. I’ve always liked this coat on you. I’ll have Mrs. Hudson do it.” 

  
He grabs up the jacket and starts for the door, moving fast because suddenly he needs to leave, to be alone, to be- a hand grabs him and jerks him back. John is on his feet, the tea cup upset on the rug, and he has Sherlock’s sleeve in a tight-fisted grip.

  
“Sherlock.”

  
“This is not my area of expertise,” Sherlock says.

As if that should explain everything. And because he says it to John, who understands what Sherlock’s saying even when it makes no sense, he does not need to say more.

  
There is an image in his mind of John, curled up near the couch- _not on it, he thinks, or it wouldn’t still smell of me_ \- with this jacket that he thought had Sherlock’s blood on it, and it is heartbreaking. Sherlock’s heart, the metaphysical one he used to believe he didn’t have,  aches at this thought, of John hurting and no one there to see or to fix it. And Sherlock knows it was necessary, so why can’t he just stop _feeling bad about it_?

  
John’s lips are very soft. They are undemanding. They are just enough to quiet the madness in Sherlock’s mind. Sherlock drops the jacket in favor of holding John’s face as gently as he can. Sherlock has rarely given in to physical urges, but John, John’s mouth and his face and his eyes with all those shades of blue, they are better than any drug Sherlock’s ever tried. 

  
They might not be better than cases and clues and deductions and observations- but they are very close. 

  
When John’s lips leave his in favor of trailing soft, dry kisses across Sherlock’s cheek and jaw Sherlock stands very still. John is on tip-toe and he buries his nose just behind Sherlock’s ear and breathes deeply. Sherlock trembles, actually trembles. John puts his arms around Sherlock and lets his weight fall on him. Sherlock can handle it easily, keeping them both up and together. John is much slighter than he had been. And he had already been so small to Sherlock, so in need of protecting. 

  
“It doesn’t matter... the jacket,” John whispers in the warm space against Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock’s knees feel like water. “You’re here now.”

  
John’s teeth are neat and even, they are exactly like John himself. And when he bites into Sherlock’s neck, just a nip and a flash of hot, wet tongue, Sherlock groans and nearly takes them both down to the floor. John does it again, and again, and it takes far longer than it should for Sherlock to realize that John is _marking_ him.

  
If Sherlock were not already blindingly hard, he would be now. As it is, he rolls his hips helplessly against John’s. John lifts his head, admiring his work before meeting Sherlock’s dazed expression.

  
“I’m tired,” John says again, with very careful and precise enunciation. “You should really take me to bed now, Sherlock.” 

  
Sherlock’s bedroom is closer, but he’s been gone for so long and he knows John hasn’t touched it. He takes them up to John’s, following a step behind so that when John turns around, as if he’s worried Sherlock won’t be there, Sherlock is at the perfect height to kiss him fiercely before shoving him up another step. 

  
John trips on the last step, too busy sucking another bruise on Sherlock’s neck to pay attention to where his feet are, and Sherlock grabs him, but he’s unbalanced and ends up barely managing to soften the fall. John is on the landing underneath him, eyes wide and a broad smile of his face. His hands are still tangled in Sherlock’s hair, almost painfully tight.

  
Sherlock cannot possibly resist that smile. He lowers his mouth to John’s, licking and biting until John’s mouth opens under his, soft and pliant, and fighting back against Sherlock’s. He grabs John’s hips, fingers slipping up under John’s jumper to touch warm skin. John gasps into Sherlock’s mouth and his hips thrust up against Sherlock’s and that’s about as much control as Sherlock has. 

  
“Bed,” he pants out, but he’s already pulling John’s jumper over his head and tossing it back down the stairs, the plain white shirt underneath it following shortly thereafter. And the whole time John’s mouth doesn’t leave his except to let the fabric slip over his head. 

  
Kissing John- _kissing John_ \- is heroin and cocaine and murder and suicides and it’s _perfect_. Sherlock could do this, and just this, for hours or days maybe, and be completely fine with it. But John’s fingers, nimble surgeon’s fingers, have undone Sherlock’s buttons and he’s pushing the purple shirt off of Sherlock’s shoulders and growling low in his throat when it gets caught around Sherlock’s forearms. 

  
Sherlock untangles the shirt and throws it with fury because it is keeping him from John and there is really nothing more important than touching John right now, running long fingers over John’s stomach, through the very fine dusting of hair on his chest, up his throat, leaning forward to bite his jaw.

  
“We should really-” John breaks off to moan very prettily when Sherlock begins to unbuckle John’s belt. “Bed. We should... in a bed. Oh, god, Sherlock. Christ.”

  
But the bed is so far, too far. Sherlock needs John now, needs him naked and pleading and inside of Sherlock. Or maybe Sherlock inside of him. Sherlock has had sex before, with a woman and a bloke, but it was so very boring and he’d never wanted to try it again. But John is flush all over and his eyes are too bright and too blue, and always watching Sherlock. And his skin is soft and warm and Sherlock wants to bite it. All of it.

 

And so he does. In the middle of trying to drag the other man’s pants off Sherlock simply lets go, leans over, and bites at the soft flesh of John’s side, and John cries out, such a delicious noise. Sherlock bites him again, sucks over the barely-there imprint of his teeth. 

  
“Do you have anything?” John asks and Sherlock is actually puzzled by the question. 

  
“Pardon?”

  
“Lube. Condoms.”

  
Sherlock’s vision goes a little white because _no_ , he doesn’t have those, and if that means he can’t have John right now he might actually lose his mind. And this, this is why sex and love are dangerous, this is why people commit crimes of passion. And Sherlock understands it now in a way he hasn’t before. He might actually kill someone if he has to stop touching John.

  
“Sherlock?” John’s sitting up on his elbows, looking thoroughly debauched, and Sherlock stares at him with wild eyes. “Are you okay?”

  
“Do we need... I can’t... _John_.” John deserves medals or perhaps a special Uni degree in understanding Sherlock, because he does always seem to get it just when Sherlock needs him to. Sherlock hates not having the words to say what he means, but John has stolen them all.

  
“I’m clean, it’s been ages and the army does testing. And I go yearly anyways.” John’s face is uncertain. 

  
“You’re worried about my drug use,” Sherlock says. “But you needn’t be. I was always careful. And it’s been years since I’ve done any.” He does realize there’s a note of pleading in his voice.  He desperately wants John to believe him. 

  
“And other lovers?” John is always the steadiest and calmest when he is the most worried. And he is still now, unblinking. It occurs to Sherlock that the thought of Sherlock with other people might truly bother John.

  
“I haven’t, no, never,” Sherlock begins brokenly. “No, that’s not what... John... that’s not accurate.” He kisses John, fast and hard and so desperate. He needs to reestablish that connection because it feels as if it’s slipping away. “I have, but it’s been a _very_ long time. A very long time. I didn’t want to again, after, but I do want you.”

  
He might have expected John to gape or to preen at that admission. A momentary pause at least. But John reaches between them, pushes Sherlock’s trousers just off his hips, and wraps his hand around Sherlock’s cock.

  
“That’s fine. All of it. That’s just fine, Sherlock,” John says, matter of fact, breathless, but calm. 

  
He wraps a leg around Sherlock’s and pushes up, upsetting their balance. Sherlock is on his back, looking up at John, and he can’t help the laughter that bubbles up out of his chest. 

  
With any other lover there might be offense taken, but John just chuckles at him before whispering into his ear,

“Did you forget I was an army man, you mad hatter? I could toss you further than that if I wanted to.”

  
And Sherlock might want to test that theory some day, see just how many different ways John Watson, army doctor, could bend and twist and shove Sherlock into submission. But not right now. Not this time.

  
“Bed, John, bed.”

  
The door is right there after all, and Sherlock knows how comfortable John’s bed is. He’s rested in it more than once while John was off with one woman or another. 

  
There is a mad scramble of limbs; Sherlock cannot tell who drags who into the room and stumbles them into the bed. He is far too fascinated with the twining of his own pale skin with John’s. 

  
John straddles his waist, naked, when did he get naked? Sherlock’s brain is short circuiting because thinking about sex with John and actually doing it are so completely different. John naked, in his mind, is handsome and smooth and desirable. He is also untouchable. Not real. In reality, John naked is hot skin, tanned skin, a muscled chest, and a slightly softer stomach. It is also a hard, leaking cock brushing Sherlock’s, and bright eyes and flushed cheeks and demanding lips.

  
Logically, Sherlock knows that John is small, smaller than he, at least. But John is such a large presence in Sherlock’s life, in his mind, and it is surprising on occasion to remember how compact he actually is. Naked, he seems almost fragile, something that Sherlock should wrap himself around and protect. Except that John, to Sherlock, is shelter embodied, a harbor, his safe place. Neither is really a sensation Sherlock has had before.

  
The paradox that is John Watson is a marvel to behold. 

  
“Stop thinking,” John demands. He’s trying to get Sherlock’s trousers off without taking his hands off bare skin and is failing spectacularly. 

  
“But you’re a marvel, John.”

  
John goes very still, casting a dubious glance at Sherlock’s face. 

  
“I mean it,” Sherlock whispers, realizing that John is searching for some sort of mockery in his expression. “I wouldn’t be here, like this, with anything less, would I?” Because that’s true. It takes something special and unique to keep Sherlock’s interest and John _has_ his interest. Even when Sherlock was in an entirely different country John had his interest.

  
The softness that comes into John’s eyes takes Sherlock’s breath away. 

  
“Right, of course,” John breathes. When he kisses Sherlock this time it’s sweet and slow, the edge from earlier gone.

  
Sherlock runs his fingers gently over John’s chest, up to his left shoulder where the scar tissue mars the skin. He  
follows the ridges of flesh, mapping the injury that had brought John to him. John shivers, kisses him deeper, rolling his hips into Sherlock’s. Sherlock kicks his trousers off, no pants to worry about, and finally there is nothing between them.

  
“Oh god,” John groans, muffled by Sherlock’s mouth against his, but Sherlock hears it anyway. John pulls away, meeting Sherlock’s gaze. “I want you, too, you know. I want-” John can’t seem to put his request into words, and Sherlock remembers suddenly that John has more than likely never been with a man. And how delightfully ironic that Sherlock, who really might as well be a virgin, is somehow the more experienced.

  
Sherlock does not waste time with _are you sure_ or _what do you want_.  He pushes John off him gently as he can and rolls over so that John is beneath him. John’s legs spread for him and Sherlock smoothes his hands down John's stomach and across his thighs. John breaths out harshly, eyes wild on Sherlock’s. 

  
Sherlock reaches up, running his finger down John’s cheek to the corner of his mouth, over his bottom lip. Such a perfect mouth, delicate and expressive. Just the smallest amount of pressure and John opens his lips and sucks Sherlock’s finger in. Sherlock shudders. 

  
“Good, very good,” he murmurs, without meaning to, and John’s eyes widen, his tongue peeking out to lick the sensitive skin between Sherlock’s fingers. 

  
When his finger is good and wet, John is licking his lips like he misses the taste, and Sherlock presses softly against John’s entrance. John hisses and spreads his legs wider. It’s not enough for Sherlock to press his long finger into the other man, he wants to feel and taste and possess every part of John. He lowers his head, licking a long line from John’s inner thigh down to where his finger is working John open. 

  
“Bloody christ, god, fuck, Sherlock, what-” John cuts off into a wordless crooning as Sherlock presses a wet kiss at his entrance, tongue pressing in alongside his finger.

  
Sherlock sighs, his entire body going lax because this, _just this_ , might be enough. The taste and smell of John, the sounds he’s making, and Sherlock has never wanted anything like this. He could live forever on this. And it’s lovely that he’s come back to life and now John is his, _really his_ , and _safe_.

  
Sherlock is gentle with John, more gentle than he could have imagined being. He doesn’t want to scare John or hurt him. Wants this to be perfect, because it already is better than anything Sherlock’s ever done with another human being. He opens him slowly, carefully, with fingers and tongue, until John is writhing on the bed and none of the words coming out of his mouth make sense and his back is bowed so he can tangle his hands tightly in Sherlock’s curls.

  
Sherlock pulls out his fingers, grips John’s hips in a bruising grip, and pulls the other man closer.

  
“John.” He has a moment of apprehension because John seems very far away, but then John’s eyes meet his and Sherlock sees that John is right there with him.

  
Sherlock is shaking, he didn’t even realize, his arms weak as he falls on top of John, burying his face in his neck. 

  
“It’s okay, it’s fine, Sherlock. Please,” John is whispering, over and over, steady hands running down Sherlock’s spine. 

  
Sherlock nods against his skin and nudges John until the other man is on his side, back to Sherlock. Sherlock moves in as close behind him as he can, one hand between them to guide his cock, the other splayed over John’s chest, fingertips against the scar on his shoulder. 

  
John breathes slowly and evenly as Sherlock pushes in. He’s so tight, so tight it almost hurts even though Sherlock was careful. It must hurt John, but as he pushes in that last bit John moans as if the weight of his entire world has left his shoulders, as if Sherlock's just relieved him of some great burden.

John's burning up- _so hot and so tight and_ \- or maybe Sherlock’s burning, he can’t tell one from the other anymore. John presses back against Sherlock, twines his fingers in Sherlock’s over the scar on his shoulder.

  
“Sherlock.”

  
The way he says it, so wistful and quiet, unsure, it breaks Sherlock a little.He nuzzles his face into John’s neck, barely even moving, just enjoying being this close, being so wrapped up in John. 

  
“I don’t make promises I don’t keep, John.” He seals the words against John’s skin with a kiss. “I would never have left you that way if I hadn’t thought I absolutely needed to. But I will not do so again.”

  
“Okay, yeah. Okay.” But there are tears in John’s voice and his chest hitches.

  
Sherlock pulls his cock out, moves John until he is laying on his back and Sherlock can drape himself over him. He presses back in again, faster this time, a little harder. John’s eyes catch his and he gasps. 

  
“Tell me you believe me,” he demands, but quietly, and thrusts into John again.

  
John’s hands scrabble for purchase on Sherlock’s back, fingers digging in. “I believe you.”

  
Sherlock thrusts harder, hands bruising on John, pulling the doctor’s hips off the bed to meet his body. He tries very hard to stay gentle, but there’s a furious desperation building in him. There can be nothing between him and John. John must be completely his. And this grief that John is holding onto, it’s in the _way_. 

  
“Tell me you forgive me.”

  
John sobs and buries his face in Sherlock’s neck, but Sherlock hears the muffled, “I do, of course I do, you bloody idiot.”

  
John’s leg hitches up around Sherlock’s waist and Sherlock loses himself in the tight, slick heat of John’s body. He tries to catalogue John’s reactions, what makes him swear, what makes him curse, what makes him go still and quiet and so tense with need that Sherlock’s not quite sure if John is still breathing. But it is an impossible task. John is too responsive, gives too much of himself to this act that Sherlock used to disdain. It is _beautiful_. And it is just one more thing that Sherlock wants to spend years studying, with John, only with John.

  
Sherlock wants John to come completely untouched, and he’s sure he can do that. He pulls John’s legs high up on his hips, the angle deeper and tighter this way, and John goes silent again, eyes desperate on Sherlock's.

  
“You like this,” Sherlock says, and John’s eyes flutter back into his head for a moment. “Not just the sex, that’s part of it, but you like _this_ , you and I.” Sherlock leans forward, fucks into John slow and deliberate. “You could keep me here, like this. I very nearly wish you would. Enthralled. Sherlock Holmes enthralled by John Watson.” John makes a broken, sobbing noise and his hands bury themselves in Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock nuzzles against John’s jaw. “You make beautiful noises, John. Better than the violin.” He wraps his arms around John, no space between them, barely enough room to fuck, but it’s exactly what Sherlock wants.

  
Exactly what John wants. “Sherlock, please.” He grinds up against Sherlock, cock leaking over Sherlock’s stomach.

  
“I want you to come like this, John. Can you? Of course you can. Just like this, against my skin. Do you know when the last time I let someone this close was? It doesn’t matter, it was so long ago. And it was nothing like this. _Nothing_ is like you.”

  
He’s trying to get John off but he can feel his own orgasm creeping up on him, his spine tensing. He can’t speak anymore, he just moves against John, kissing and biting whatever skin he can reach. John is murmuring sweet words and promises and curses and vows of devotion Sherlock does not deserve from someone like John Watson, but will take anyway because he does want it so badly. 

  
Sherlock takes John’s mouth, crying out against his lips as his orgasm spills over him in a dizzying wave. John shouts, the sound trapped between their mouths, and he tightens around Sherlock’s cock as he comes between their bodies, slick and hot and wonderful. Sherlock presses them together, wraps his limbs around John’s body so that John will never be able to get out from under him. And John holds on just as tight, breathing frantically against Sherlock’s neck. 

  
“Don’t stop moving,” John finally gasps out. “I want to feel you, Sherlock. Keep moving. Please.”

  
Sherlock is still half hard, despite his orgasm. He’s not sure if he’ll reach orgasm again but he can do as John asks. He moves his hips, just a gentle roll of motion. John makes a humming noise against his throat, bites at the sensitive skin there. 

  
Sherlock’s not sure how long he keeps at it, only that at some point he is hard again. And John is hard again. And this time John rolls them over and he moves above Sherlock, flushed and shy until Sherlock calls him a marvel once more. They come again, John first and Sherlock a heartbeat after.

  
They’re covered in sweat and Sherlock aches, so he’s sure John is hurting as well. But the doctor does not complain. He doesn’t even clean them off, he just pulls the covers over them and burrows into Sherlock’s chest as if he could hide there. 

  
“I might get angry again,” John warns. Sherlock nods. “You were gone for so long and I just... I didn’t know what to do with myself anymore. I don’t... like to be dramatic, Sherlock. But it just... it was very not good, without you.”

  
“It was not very good without you either. You can get angry. But you must forgive me, you promised."

 

“I have. I will again, if I get angry again.”

  
“You should rest. I'll be here.”

  
John is yawning and shaking his head in the negative, but his eyes are already closing. Sherlock presses a gentle kiss to the corner of one eye.

  
“Don’t move,” John orders.

  
“I would never,” Sherlock promises.

  
***

  
John wakes to an abnormally sunny London day. The curtains are drawn back, sunlight flooding the room. He blinks confusedly, and then turns within the tight embrace he’s woken in. Sherlock is, surprisingly enough, sleeping. His eyelashes are long and dark against the pale of his cheeks. The sheets are tangled around their waists, but the long, lean line of Sherlock’s torso is there for John to admire. 

  
There are bruises all over Sherlock’s neck and collarbone. John almost feels guilty. Almost. Then he remembers the way Sherlock had responded to being marked and heat floods through him. Without thinking, he presses his mouth to an unmarked stretch of skin and sucks lightly.

  
Sherlock moans in his sleep and shifts closer to John, his cock already hard and pressing into John’s stomach. 

 

“It’s a good thing I favor scarves, John,” Sherlock’s voice rumbles under John’s lips, and John smiles. “I had planned on going to the Yard today and revealing myself to Lestrade.”

  
“Too warm for a scarf,” John tells him, sucking harder on his neck. Sherlock bruises so easily. John wants to see the marks his fingers must have left. He lifts the blankets and crawls beneath them, trailing kisses until he reaches Sherlock’s ribs, then down to his hips, and sure enough, there are bruises in the shape of John’s fingertips. He kisses them, licks them.

  
“You aren’t suggesting I go down there looking like this?” Sherlock asks archly, but there’s a fine tremor running under his skin and John wants to draw it out and leave him a shaking mess in the bedsheets.

  
It’s a nice thought, then he twists the wrong way and his entire body reminds him that he’s just been let out of the hospital, regardless of how much time he spent recovering there, and perhaps having a romping go with his- well, his, he doesn’t know- his _Sherlock_ was not the smartest idea. Worth it, of course, but not the brightest of ideas.

  
“A bath will help ease the aches,” Sherlock drawls, head buried in John’s pillow.

  
“Look at you, being lazy.”

  
“I put all my energy into buggering you, I’m tired now. Are you happy?”

  
And actually, John is. He’s wondering how often he can wear Sherlock out like this, get a nice night’s sleep cuddled up with someone. John does like to cuddle. 

  
“I could use a bath as well,” Sherlock says, lifting his head and looking down at John, who is still languishing down near his hip, ignoring the hard cock just below his eye sight. 

  
“Are you saying you want us to have a bath? Together?”

  
Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “You’ve gone daft, I’ll have to retrain you.” There’s a slight lift to the corner of his lips.

John climbs up the bed, up Sherlock’s long and naked body, to kiss them. 

  
“You’ll manage, I suspect.”

  
Sherlock bites John’s lip and throws the covers off, coming out of the bed like a shot. John watches him leave, enjoying the sight of wiry muscles under pale skin. 

  
With a groan John rise from the bed and starts for the door.

  
He nearly runs into Sherlock as his head pops back into the room. Sherlock grins at John, the real one, the one he really only ever uses on John.

  
“It’s very good to be home, John.”

  
John grins back, and as he always does, follows after Sherlock.

 

 


End file.
